C'est la Mort
by Mister Grinch
Summary: Calvin Candie has a tumultuous love-hate relationship with one of his rebellious slaves. Reuploaded!
1. Pray for Me

**I owe you all one terrible explanation as to why this story is being reuploaded. **

**Sigh. **

**Lehggo. **

**I let my friend (not just someone whom I've known for maybe a year. We've grown up together) borrow my laptop to write a paper that was incredibly over due for a class. She couldn't use her own laptop because it was getting fixed and couldn't go to the library because yada yada yada. **

**When I get my computer back hours later, I see my fanfiction account has every story deleted, and my back up files were gone. Like, deleted from my folder and then again deleted from the goddamn trash. Bitch really had it out for me.**

**Yeah. Le Sigh. **

**I'm going to spare you all the details where I cried for hours and almost fought my newly excommunicated friend, but know that this is my new account and I'm sorry to all of those who enjoyed any other story of mine. They are all gone. The only reason this one is still here is because I wrote the first two chapters on another computer while on my Winter Vacation. **

**Again, I really do apologize. But it was a lesson learned. Better now than later. **

**Chapter two will be reuploaded tomorrow. **

"C'est la Mort"

Who knew water could feel like smoldering lava?

A horrendous scream ripped itself from Giselle's mouth, echoing throughout the entire plantation as she felt what could have only been described as her skin being peeled layer by layer. For days she baked, baked and rotted within the confines of that damn oven, its insides reaching a temperature she swore even the surface of the Sun couldn't fathom.

How many days had she been in there? She sure as hell didn't know. After the first night of sweating and marinating in her own filth, her mind drifted in and out of consciousness for the rest of her duration in there. It was supposed to be ten days. Ten days for attempting to run away from Calvin Candie and his goddamn prison. But hell, it felt like she'd been roasting for an eternity.

Time was different inside the hotbox than what it was on the outside world. It was skewed.

Tears – she didn't know she had any more to give at this point – hot and slick, involuntarily ran down her dirtied black face, staining her dry, cracked lips that further split from her wailing. Her exposed body writhed and squirmed like a tentacle. All she wanted was for the burning sensation of her flesh to stop.

"Shut that goddamn hollerin' up, girl." Giselle recognized that voice anywhere. It was distinctive in both its brazen tone and aged pitch. It put a fear in some worst than Calvin ever could. Stephen, the goddamn house nigger. The Uncle Tom who had no problem going against his own race. "Whatchoo trynna do? Wake up the dead with all that hootin'? You trynna get yo mami and papi to rise up?"

Normally, Giselle would've acknowledged Stephen's blatant disrespecting of her deceased parents, but the agony her body was put in as various men snatched and latched onto her hypersensitive skin was all she could think about. With every tug and pull they gave, the more her screams caused the birds to caw and the slaves to stir in their sleep. They spared her no dignity as they carelessly tossed her bare body into a rusted wheelbarrow. A wheelbarrow. Something used to transport dirt and crops was now shipping off a rebellious slave back to the one place she didn't want to be.

Candyland.

Don't let the name fool ya, there wasn't a damn thing sweet about this place. You see, once you walked up that little dirt road and saw that pristine white house, you were in for a world of trouble. Giselle didn't care what skin color you were. Candyland might as well've been called hell.

"I ain't gon' tell you no more, shut that cryin' up," Stephen threatened, his lips curling up into a snarl. "You may got these other niggas 'round here fooled, but you ain't foolin' me! This dun been your fourth time in that there box this year and ain't no way in hell yo body don't know how to adjust. That thick ass dark skin of yours can't get anymore bruised and uglier than it already is."

Giselle didn't notice to the thick and muggy air of Mississippi coating her lungs. It was perhaps a vicious Summer night, one where the beads of sweat just seemed to stick to you and refused to go away. But she didn't take no mind to that. The air felt frigid and cold to her after being confined in that pit.

"See, I told Calvin to give you a more severe punishing. Told 'em to uh... sick the dogs on ya or give ya a good ole beatin'. But he insisted that the box was to be your... what's that fancy word he used. Recomesense. Yeah... your recomesense for running away," he continued on with his rants, grumbling to himself nonstop. A chatty fellow, that man was. Giselle had been here all her life and still didn't know how to tune the man out. "I know the truth though. I don't know how ya did it, or what devil hex you dun put Master, but he got his eye on you. He like you. For why I don't know."

She knew better than to listen to that delusional fool. Calvin didn't have an ounce of compassion in him. Not a sliver of kindness inhabited him. He was pure evil. Pure evil who deserved every bit of bad luck he ran upon. Just one day she wished she had the courage to fight back. Not run, but fight.

She didn't have that kind of strength in her. Calvin took it away from her before it had a chance to manifest. He did that with all his slaves. None of them had the courage to revolt. She prayed for it though.

"Cora," Stephen called out.

"Yes, Sir?" said the tender voice of Cora, the head of all the women house slaves.

"I want you to clean Giselle up and make her presentable."

"So I shouldn't put her in her nightgown and put her to bed?"

"Did I say put her in her nightgown or did I say make her look presentable?" Stephen's voice softened in the presence of Miss Cora, but it still held that same know-it-all tone. "I'm sorry, Cora, I ain't mean to sound all sour on ya. It's just that, she ain't goin' to bed no time soon."

Why wouldn't she be going to bed soon? She let out a muffled groan of frustration as she didn't think her body could handle any more torture for tonight. Or the next night. Or the few weeks after that.

"Now if you don't mind me askin', if she ain't goin' to bed, where she goin'?"

Giselle wanted to thank Cora for posing the question she was too tired to ask. She couldn't speak no how. Her throat was too dry and her vocal cords were too hoarse from all her screaming.

The answer Stephen gave put a fear in her that was unshakeable. It weighed on her heavy and little pins of anxiety poked ruthlessly at her. What did this ruthless killer have in store for her?

"Calvin wanna see her."

**. . . **

**The word Stephen was looking for was recompense. Though I'm sure you all knew that. **

**I hope this little prologue of sort has been entertaining. I hope the dialogue isn't too hard to follow, and I hope my usage of nigga and all its colorful variations isn't going to offend anyone. I'm black if it makes any difference. **

**Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. **


	2. Weak and Powerless

**Thank you to all those who have left reviews and and pms sending your condolences over my situation. Yes, I've tried just about everything to get my files back, it ain't happening. **

**But let's look on the bright side. I still have this story, and the reviews previously left will always be in my memory. Thank you all.**

**Excuse the sudden switch from third person to first. I am still in the midst of figuring out which POV I'd like to do. Third sounds more professional and flows better. First gives Giselle a lot more character depth but it's harder for me to fully grasp the mindset of a slave. **

**What to do, what to do...**

**I guess I'll just let you all tell me which you like reading more. **

It was funny. How for the first time in my twenty-seven years of life, I was dressed like a white woman.

Now I know I shouldn't have been thinking about something so stupid at a time like this, what with the hallway practically spinning from how dizzy I was, but I couldn't help it. The dress I was in was just too damn pretty. It was frilly and a pretty, weird tan-like color. Kind of like those drinks I saw Calvin and his guests drinking. They called it champagne or sumthin. And it had little pastel flowers on it too. Oh, I would just be the belle of the ball had I been at a social gathering.

I, Giselle Bishop, was dressed like a rich, white woman.

And boy, did they have it rough.

Cora put me in one of those fancy things they called a corset. I called it torture. Now I'd been through some pretty bad stuff but why would a woman willingly go through something like this? This corset thing squeezed my waist so tight like a snake around a mouse. It just wasn't natural.

Was that why white women had a harder time giving birth to living babies than us black folk did?

And I couldn't even think about breathin'. Oh no sir, if I dared to exhale just a little too hard I could goddamn guarantee you the entire thing would fall apart. And if that happened, I'd shonuff be getting' a mighty fine whippin'. I wasn't in any mood to get beat tonight. I'd been through enough.

Geeze, I was beginning to think that maybe this was to further my punishment rather than catch the eye of Calvin.

Catch the eye of Calvin... what the hell was I thinkin'?

That was the point, I could hardly think as is. Not with the treatment they'd put me through after I decayed in that hotbox. They didn't allow me to eat and ain't give me nothing to drink neither. How could they expect me to not wanna pass out after staying in that God forsaken hellhole? How could they treat me like this ever since I was set free?

Free. What did that mean, anyway?

I had to ignore it. I had to put all my pain aside. The spinning of the room, the aching of my ribs as I drew in each breath, the drops of sweat trickling down the nape of my neck because of how hot it was, the hollowness of my empty stomach, I couldn't show any signs of discomfort when in the presence of Calvin. Especially since this was the first conversation we'd have since after I ran away. I ain't know what kind of mood that man was in and I wasn't in no hurry to anger him.

I could hear my short breaths quivering in the long hallway and I immediately hushed that up. Especially since I just found a bit of courage to knock on the hard mahogany door in front of me.

My three solid knocks drew a response all most instantly.

"You may enter."

My heart began pounding so hard, I could hear it in my ears and was sure you could see it beating by how tight my dress was.

But I couldn't keep him waiting too long. No, he'd get mad at that. And a mad Calvin was not to be messed with. My fear of his anger was greater than my fear of our conversation. So without a moment's thought, I pressed the door open and was greeted with the sight of the back of Calvin's head as he sat on a maroon colored couch not facing me.

I didn't take a step inside. Not yet. I needed permission first.

"Monsieur Candie?" I asked like a good slave would've, trying my damnedest to cover up just how hoarse my voice really was with a sweet and delightful tone.

"Yes?"

God, I wanted to place my hand on the frame of the door before me just to keep me from collapsing. I was beginning to get sick to my stomach. "Can I come in?"

"_May,_" he corrected me as he usually did when I spoke ignorantly in front of him. "Yes, yes you may."

Cautiously, I took a few small steps into the library, being greeted with the distinctive scent of Calvin's lit cigarettes along with the smoky smell of wood burning in the crackling fireplace beside us. But what immediately grabbed my attention were the books. There were just so many of them filling the entire room that I stared at them with a curiosity that even a cat didn't have. I'd been in this room many a time, but the books filling the place always seemed to amaze me.

What kind of stories were written in those books, anyhow? What kind of tales did people write about? Of long lost loves finding their way back to each other? Poor men going from rags to riches? Ordinary men doing extraordinary things?

Were there any about my predicament? About slavery? Naw. Why would there be? Stories were meant to take you away from your problems, not face 'em head on. Or that's how I saw it. I wouldn't wanna read about no nigger getting' beat, no how.

"Now don't be rude, you're keeping me waiting."

My attention snapped like a whipped and sent me tumbling back into reality head first. Quickly realizing how lost in my own world I'd been, I dipped my head to the floor, squeezed my eyes shut, and apologized for my disrespectfulness.

"I'm so sorry, Monsieur. I just got carried away by the books in here."

"Ah," he drew out, that Southern drawl of his thick like molasses. "I see my expansive collection of literature has captivated you."

I nodded my head. "Yes, sir."

His back was still facing me so I couldn't properly figure out how he felt over the issue. And unless I was told to come beside him and take a seat, I wasn't to move from my place.

"Tell me, Giselle, can you read?"

My body stiffened like a piece of wood. Why would he ask such a question that he knew the answer to? Well, he thought he knew the answer to it at least. I'd always kept my somewhat being able to read a secret.

My mama taught me. She learned from overhearing Calvin's teachings when he was a boy and when I was of age, she taught me all she remembered. She said it was my duty to teach someone else, who would then teach another man, who would then inform another. Each one teach one, she called it.

But no one was to ever know of that.

"No, sir."

"Well then quit your goddamn gawking and come have a sit down. Ain't no use of looking at something you'll never have the privilege of doing. You don't see legless men staring at oceans do you?"

Did he want me to answer that? Calvin may have been smart, but he always had a funny way of explainin' things.

"I asked you a question," he insisted.

"No, sir."

"Then come sit your fine ass right here next to me."

Damn. Right when I was getting used to my seasick feeling – though I've never been on a ship. But my ancestors were. Does that count? - he wanted me to move from my place. I wasn't gonna keep him waiting though so I quickly bunched the sides of my dress in my balled hands, feeling its almost silk-like texture caressing my fingers, and quickly tiptoed over by his side.

I bowed my head quickly to him to which he gave a closed mouth smile and generously began patting the couch cushion beside him. Against my wishes, I took that seat.

"My, my, my, don't you look ravishing." He grinned before taking a bite of food from the plate I'd just noticed sitting in his lap. His fork scraped against the it, making an irritating noise that would've made me shudder had I been able to. But more than that, it was the food itself that had me so blindsided. He knew I was starving and chose to eat in front of me anyway. "My little turtle dove, I believe that buff is your color."

I blinked, shifting my gaze from the tempting plate to the vile man sitting not a foot away from me. His hair was parted on the side and slicked away from his face, flowing down to reach the collar of his well tailored outfit. His hair was a weird color too. Figuring out its shade always depended on the lighting. Sometimes it looked blonde and at other times it looked downright brown. Like it couldn't make up its mind.

And he always kept his beard neatly combed and trimmed, though it only added more focus to his strong jawline and his high cheekbones that only made him look more wicked than he already was. Calvin smelled too. Not in a bad way. Like strong french cologne and smoke. He took great pleasure in his appearance, always making sure he was to be dressed like royalty.

Taking a sip of the cool glass of water I hadn't seen sitting on the miniature table before us, he cleared his throat. "Why are you here?"

I was hoping you would tell me. "You asked me here."

"Wrong!" he screamed, a thunderous noise resounding as he smacked his hands together, the plate on his lap threatening to slip right on off and fall to the floor. I jerked backwards. "You are here for a reason and I am _not _that reason. Now, I want you to think real hard about the answer you give me this time. Why. Are. You. Here?"

The grit and unfathomable bass in his voice struck a fear in me. Hard. This was Calvin Candie. This was the man I was petrified of. Who could snap at any moment and I'd have no way of escaping his wrath.

"I ran away," I whispered, pulling my lip between my teeth and ignored how my hands were now behind me. They gripped at the couch's arm until I could feel its wooden frame trying to break my long nails.

"And why did you run away?" He spoke each word cold and harshly, his voice just as low and just as raspy as my own.

I didn't know how to answer. If I lied, I'd get beat. If I told the truth, I'd get beat. I guess it was a matter of did I want to save my ass and get a worse beatin' or tell the truth and get a whoopin' I could handle.

My decision was an easy one.

"I want to be free." I closed my eyes in anticipation for his assaults to start.

"You want to be free?"

"Yes," I whimpered, tears threatening to fall at any given moment. I had to get a grip. I had to stop being a damn cry-baby.

"Oh you poor, idiotic fool. What makes you think that life out there is better than life in here?"

"Anything's better than this."

And here was the part where he hit me.

"Wrong!" he screamed once again, my own yelp engulfing the thick air as I felt his hands grip my chin so hard, I could feel his thumb digging into the underside of my tongue. He yanked me over to him like I was weightless, my body tumbling onto his lap, the very food he once ate now staining my gorgeous dress.

He inched his face so close to mine that I could make out my own nigger reflection in his violent blue yes. "How can you be so sure that the world beyond Candyland is so saccharine? Out there, out there is far more unforgiving than I am. They don't hire little nigger girls out there. Which means you will have no money. Which means you will have no shelter. Which means you will have no food. Which means you will have no clothing. Here in Candyland, I support you with food to fill your stomach, clothes to cover your ass, and a bed for you to rest. So tell me, is being a broken down, penniless, naked nigger in the streets better than what I am giving you?"

I didn't care. I didn't care about how unknown the world beyond this plantation was. I knew that I could probably get snatched up by another slave master who was probably more evil than Calvin was. Or that I could get killed by racist men on the street corners. That the chances of me heading up north and finding freedom was slim to none.

But I just didn't goddamn care. I wanted to know how it felt to be a free woman if it were even for a millisecond. To breath the air as a free woman. To walk the land as a free woman. To feel the blades of grass tickle the soles of my feet as a free woman.

I'd take my very last breath trying to if that's what it meant.

And I couldn't never tell Calvin that.

That was why I lied to him.

"No, sir."

"So I will ask you again, why did you run away?" he growled, the tips of his lips almost touching mine. We were so close that I could feel the stray hairs of his beard scratching against my skin. So close that I was inhaling his exhales.

"I don't know." I felt one of the tears I'd been trying with all my might to contain, fall. "I'm sorry."

"Actions speak louder than words, Gissy."

"What do you want me to do to make you forgive me?"

He tossed me to the floor like I was trash, my body crashing into the table before us. The water that'd been on that table knocked over, spilling down my shoulders and onto my heaving breasts before I gave a yelp at how cold the sensation was.

All this good food gone to waste.

"That perfectly fine dress gone to waste." Calvin lit a cigarette that he smoked through some long looking holder. He took in a drag before blowing out a long line of musty, grey smoke, looking like some kind of dragon. "You've made quite the mess."

I didn't tell him to go all crazy on me.

"I should give you twenty lashings for that," he sighed as if beating me was nothing to him. "But I won't. You're too pretty to have those nasty permanent scars."

That'd been the only act of kindness he'd ever given me. He always spared me from any punishment that would mark up my skin. "Oh thank you sir."

"You're a thorn in my side, Giselle. But you're a thorn worth keeping, now aren't you."

I nodded. "You're too kind."

"Yes I am. But you'll be making up for it."

"How?"

"You'll be escorting me to my Cleopatra Club tomorrow."

**This was Calvin and Giselle's first meeting. This is just one of plenty. I mean, we have a whole story to read about. **

**I don't want this story to follow the movie... but I do want to include Broomhilda and King Schultz. Django is gonna be the hard one to try and incorporate so you may not see him. **

**I hope Calvin has been kept in character. He's such a ruthless man, but is so damn charming. And let's not forget how terribly stupid he actually is. It's gonna be fun trying to grasp his character. **

**Thank you for reading.**


	3. Ride

**As far as which POV to write in, I do remember before the story was taken down that there was a stalemate between first and third. And then a lovely reviewer suggested that I switch between third and first from time to time. So, if you all don't mine – I surely don't – some chapters will be third and some will be first. This will have both.**

**Everyone's happy!**

**And now... to think of a way to include Django without it turning into the Movie's plot.**

Chapter 3

Sitting in a horse-drawn carriage (I'd never been in one of those before!) on the opposite side of Calvin wasn't somethin' I was used to. Sure, he and I had our fair exchanges from time to time. I mean, I _did _live in the same household as the man. But I never thought of myself as someone he would ever want to accompany him to his very own club.

I didn't know much about the Cleopatra Club, hell, I ain't know much about the world outside of Candyland, but I knew a thing or two about the place just from hearing slaves gossipin' and my own experiences.

One – it took an awfully long time to get to the damn place. I learned that all on my own. Calvin and I had been sitting near each other for hours now and I don't think we were even half way there.

Two – The club was known for it's Mandingo fights. A bloody sport that pit one slave against another for entertainment. But if you don't mind, I'd kind of don't wanna talk much about that.

Three – The Cleopatra Club was known for white men showing their black 'girlfriends' off as trophies or prizes. That only the prettiest of black girls got access inside the place.

Did this mean that Calvin thought I was pretty?

Or that I was his girlfriend?

Oh lord...

"Giselle, what's caught your attention?" Calvin said from the other side of the small, closed off, box we were sitting in. While a funny lookin' bearded man sat on horse outside and took us to our destination, the two of us were hidden from the outside world inside... what they call those things? A buggy? We could've talked and just about done anything we wanted and no one would've seen or heard.

That was enough to make me nervous around someone like Calvin.

"My attention?" I repeated, not sure what he was talking about.

He nodded. "I'm beginning to believe you aren't even aware you're doing it."

I shifted in my seat and rested my head in the palm of one of my hands. "Doing what, Monsieur?"

"Calvin."

"Excuse me?"

"For the next few days, I'd like you to call me by my first name. You do know it's Calvin, correct?"

Of course I knew what the man's name was. What, did he think I was some kind of idiot? You just never heard slaves calling their masters my their first name.

Unless they were saying, "Yes, Monsieur Calvin."

Or, "Yes sir, Calvin, sir."

But to just say their name alone? I ain't never heard no nigga do that before.

Except Stephen. And he wasn't no nigga no mo. Not to me. His skin may have been black like a nigga's, but his heart and soul was of a white man's.

"I know what your name is." My voice had raised itself. Not out of fear or nothin' like that, but I guess you could say it was out of suspicion. I just ain't wanna say his name and then get beat afterwards. He wasn't gon' trick me.

He smiled and against my wishes I cocked my eyebrow. "Then you should have no problem acclimating to using it."

_Mhm. _Whatever. You had something up your sleeve and you weren't foolin' me none.

But still, he wanted me to say his name with no other title attached to it? I wasn't gonna turn that down.

"I guess not... Calvin." His name tasted funny on my tongue. It was like tearing into fruit you were forbidden to eat. Now whether that fruit was delicious or foul, I ain't know yet. "But what were you sayin' before."

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Before?"

"Yeah. You were talking about how things catch my attention and I don't even know it."

Did he not remember the conversation we had just a few minutes ago?

"Oh yes, about you getting wrapped inside of your own little world." He motioned to grab his cigarettes. He took one between his fingers, eyes glancing up at me as if he were saying 'you don't mind, do ya?'.

He was asking me for a permission to smoke?

He wanted a nigga's approval of something?

I responded with a barely noticeable shake of my head and after catching the slight movement, Calvin proceeded to light and smoke his cigarette. "You're quite the abstracted girl."

Abstracted? "What that mean?"

He blew thick clouds of smoke out the little window beside him that was cracked open. "You live inside your head, Gissy."

I did? "I do?"

"Sometime's I talk to you and I don't think you're paying a lick of attention to me."

I quickly apologized. That's what he wanted from me right?

"I'm sorry. I don't mean nothin' by-"

"Now whatchoo repentin' for? Ain't no need for none of that," he cooed and I immediately hushed up. "I actually enjoy that about you."

Who was this man talking to me and what did he do with the Calvin I'd known all my life?

"You comin' down with a fever, Calvin?"

He laughed. He actually laughed at somethin' I had said. And it wasn't one of those laughs that made me feel like I was walking on eggshells. It was genuine and kind of made me relax a bit. This entire journey so far was bizarre.

"I'm fine," he said. "I just think that your daydreaming is a very charming characteristic. I never know what you're thinking or what's going on in that head of yours. It's fascinating. _You_ fascinate me, Gissy."

My cheeks began to warm so much that I swear, if you touched them you'd probably burn yourself. That, partnered with the weird knots trying themselves in my stomach caused me to all but swoon right then and there. Calvin Candie just gave me a real nice compliment.

"What does a woman of your caliber think about most of the time?"

A woman of my caliber. A house slave ain't have no caliber. "Hell, I wonder the same thing about you."

"I'm a simplistic man."

"Ain't nothin simple about you, Calvin."

"I take that as a compliment."

**. . . **_**Under a sheep's skin often hides a wolfish mind . . .**_

Giselle was awestruck. Dumbfounded. Befuddled. The way her face contorted upon seeing the Cleopatra Club in all its glory was comparable to a baby seeing their reflection for the first time. Intriguing and a little frightening all intertwining in one ball of emotion. As soon as Calvin thoughtfully helped her out the carriage and her feet touched soil that hadn't been plowed by slaves, her breath was caught in her throat, aching to climb its way out but never getting quite there.

This was what a city looked like?

Men, draped in their finest coattails and top hats, walked with the most beautiful black... ponies is what Calvin called 'em (Giselle hated the term. Mainly because she was deathly afraid of horses and didn't want her name associated with such foul beasts). Some men had only one adorning their arm, but Giselle caught sight of men carrying two sometimes three or four women with them all dressed in their Sunday's best. Hell, better than your Sunday's best. These were gowns that Giselle imagined were handcrafted by the angels wearing. The dresses billowed with the wind's currents beneath them as the women – complexions ranging from that of butterscotch to nightfall – traipsed on the sidelines, lace parasols twirling beneath their grip. Stunning.

And she looked the part.

Calvin made sure she did.

Prior to the two making their way to the club, Calvin requested that Giselle was primped and plucked and oil and shined to mint condition. She was to look as sickly-sweet as the candy you often found him snacking on. This was Calvin's club after all, he had to set an example. He had to make sure his nigger girl rivaled all nigger girls.

Which still had Giselle so confused.

Why her?

She could barely take one step forward onto the ivory stairs leading that lead to the club. She bowed her head in shame. "I don't want to embarrass you none, Monsieur."

"Calvin," he corrected, placing a hand on her shoulder. While what he gave was perhaps a comforting gesture, Giselle jerked at his touch.

"I ain't been nowhere before and I'm nervous." She was an extension of him. If she was made a fool of, said something out of place, did anything to draw negative attention to herself, that made Calvin look bad. This was her first time off a plantation, she didn't know how to act. She wasn't well trained yet.

"Nonsense!" he said. "Nervous? Oh my sweet little gumdrop, it's downright silly for you to fret. You're quite the jaw dropper."

That made her smile. Another compliment from him. Of all the foul names she'd been called – her nose was wider than a donkey's ass, her skin was too dark to be a house nigger, her hair was so matted you could hardly take a comb to it, her teeth were something horrible – Calvin had called her nothing but sweet names. Calvin, who could have any black pony he wanted this side of the Mississippi, wanted Giselle.

She needed to stop acting so goddamn scared.

"I'm ready." She placed a hand into Calvin's. To which he responded by kissing the back of it, eliciting an ever-growing warm feeling that settled itself in the pit of her stomach.

A pretty little black girl dressed in a fancy maid outfit with a bow as huge as her face answered the door.

"Bonjour!" she exclaimed, a wide smile plastered fakely onto her face. Giselle knew a fake smile when she saw it. She perfected those for when she served Calvin's house guests. Her voice was as squeaky as the sound wet shoes made on freshly cleaned tiled floors.

Could this nigga speak French?

"Coco!" Calvin greeted. "How is it that you get prettier and prettier every time I see you?"

Coco bashfully batted her eyes and this time a genuine grin formed, one where Gisselle could see the creases of her eyes crinkling.

"Entra," she said and this time, a little bit of her southern accent slipped out.

That nigga ain't speak no French.

A huge bust of what Giselle guessed was and Egyptian woman caught her eye. Heavy thick eyeliner ran from the woman's eyes and an expensive looking headpiece sat on top of her head.

Was this Cleopatra?

She was mighty pretty.

But wasn't Egypt in Africa?

Cleopatra was white?

"Calvin, who's the pretty lady?" Coco asked, closing the door behind them.

"Coco, this is Giselle. She's a close friend of mine."

Giselle thought she'd died. Her heart stopped as if she'd been shot down and her blood ran cold. Her mouth grew dry but the palms of her hands made up for it. Friend? She was Calvin's friend?

Since when?

She couldn't ask that of course.

Instead, she put on a smile that was a bit more believable than her Coco's. A hand rested on her protruding hip.

"That's all I am now. Your friend?" What kind of god forsaken line was that? Ugh, it sounded so unbelievably phony. Like how Stephen was in front of guests. That wasn't like Gissy. Not at all. She'd never be so forward with him and hardly liked Calvin. Why had she decided to put on a show for these white men and their pets?

They believed it though. Coco squeaked with glee and Calvin had a look of sheer surprise caressing his handsome features.

"Coco, why don't you go fetch Leo for me," he said, eyes never leaving Giselle's.

"Right away, Monsieur. It was nice meeting you Mademoiselle." Butchering the last word tremendously – even Gisselle thought it sounded awful – Coco gave a curtsey and followed her orders, traveling up oak stairs to find... whoever this Leo guy was.

The two were once again, alone.

"You adapt to your surroundings with ease." Calvin snaked a hand around her waist and dragged her in to him without warning. Giselle could feel her heart galloping by how close they were and wondered if he could feel it too. "I should've brought you here sooner."

"This's a mighty nice place you've got, Calvin," she breathed, that same anxiety she always had when around him, returned. Ten fold. The feel of his skin on her skin put her on edge. And had his hand not been wrapped so diligently around her, her bare legs probably would've given out.

Something twinkled in his blue eyes. "I'm glad it's up to your standards."

"Calvin, who this negress you've got calling you by your first name."

That line came from by far, the most beautiful woman Giselle had seen inside or outside the club. With brown skin the color of warm umber, and sultry eyes painted with a smoky color on her lid, the woman carried herself like Giselle had seen no other slave. Graceful and confident like she were of high clout. Walking with a poise and grace of a feline as her heels resounded off the dark floorboards. Her royal purple dress cuddled against her hour-glass shape and spilled onto the glossy, shined wooden floor, playing catch-up behind her as she made her way over to Giselle and Calvin.

This woman was trouble with a capital T.

Calvin quickly removed his arm from Giselle. That alone let her know that this woman had some sort of relationship with him. A deep one. "Now now, Sheba, don't get all jealous. No harm, no foul. She's just a friend of mine."

Mhm. A friend that fascinated you. A friend you called a jaw-dropper. A friend who spent all fucking day getting dolled up for yo triflin' ass!

Placing two hands one of his shoulders, _Sheba _rested her head on them. Her lips, painted the color of carnelian, gave a slight pout. "You think I'm jealous of her? _Ummhmph._"

Giselle knew to behave and be pretty for the rich white men, but she wasn't about to take no lip from some nigger gal. No. "Now just what the fu-"

"Ladies," Calvin intercepted. "As much as a love a good match, save the sparring for the Julius Caesar room."

What the hell did some room have to do with an uppity bitch thinking she was better than anyone?

"Nobody's fighting, Candie." Sheba's glare burned Giselle's skin more than a whip would've. "Just having girl talk is all."

"Good! Then shall we proceed. All three of us."

Calvin ain't say a goddamn thing about her sharing him with some other woman.

… Why did she care? Why was she envious in the first place. Sheba could have him.

Still, she knew that this pony, wherever she came from, wasn't fond of her already. And a storm was brewing between the two of them. She could taste the animosity on her tongue.

Something bad was gonna happen.

* * *

**Poor Giselle. She's so damn naïve it almost hurts. I guess that's what happens when you only know of the world your slavemaster has shown you.**

**God, I can't wait for Schultz to show up.**

**I know this Calvin portrayal right now seems far fetched, but that's what I'm going for. In order for their relationship to work, I have to give Calvin his sweet moments to balance out his bad ones. If I didn't, their relationship would be one-sided and would probably end up with Giselle getting raped.**

**And I ain't 'bout that life.**

**If you don't mind me asking.**

**Is there something in this story that any of you would like to see or have me incorporate? I try to be a crowd pleaser and if you want to see a specific aspect of the story that I haven't shown or you don't think I will, let me know.**

**One more question for the road:**

**Favorite character and or line from the movie?**

**Believe it or not, I loooooved Stephen. His character was probably the most well crafted to me and his relationship with Calvin was the most interesting aspect of the movie. Because once the two entered that library, it's undeniable how their relationship switched. Stephen became the intelligent man and Calvin was reduced to a little boy who knew nothing. To the public eye, Stephen is the uneducated, ignorant one. But when he and Calvin are alone, Stephen was a completely different person.**

**Favorite lines?**

"_**Mo like niggerles."**_

"_**In the sweeeeeet by and by oooooh! We will meet, on that beautiful shore."**_** I tried listening to the song on youtube, ain't shit like the way Samuel sang it.**

"_**Like a pool of black tar, once it catches yo ass, you caught!"**_

"_**I can't see in this fuckin' thang! I can't breathe in this fuckin' thang! And I can't ride in this fuckin' thang!"**_

**Thank you for reading.**


	4. Giselle Sings the Blues

**Lordy, Lordy, I've been bussssy. Such is the life of a lowly film student, eh? **

**My apologies go out to the other Django fics that I have yet to review. Hopefully I will have time to get to it soon enough. **

**P.S. Is it weird that I can only listen to the Django soundtrack when writing these chapters.**

Chapter 4 – Giselle Sings the Blues

I ain't like Sheba.

Nope, sure didn't.

I knew it wasn't right to dislike a girl without even knowin' her first. My mama and daddy ain't raise me to be so darn hateful, but damn, Sheba wasn't making it easy for me. If I said something to Calvin, she said something to Calvin. If he gave me attention, she'd steal that attention right away from me. If I got asked a question, she'd give ugly little know-it-all faces that were just cotton-picking infuriating!

Needless to say, we took to each other like cats and dogs.

And while she may've been a cat - beautiful, sleek, and graceful...

You could bet yo bottom dolla that when the time came, this mangy mutt was gonna bite.

"Gissy," Sheba called. I ain't give her permission to use my nickname, but once she heard Calvin say it she ain't stop using it since. "How old you is?"

"Now Sheba," Calvin cooed, swatting her lap playfully. "You know it's rude to ask a lady their age. Excuse Sheba, Giselle, she doesn't play well with others."

Tongue running up the length of each finger slower than a snail could move, Sheba licked every bit of crawfish juice that stained her digits. Mhm, that got Calvin's attention. That got every man's attention at the dinner table. Lookin' at that girl like she was more appetizing than the meals on their damn plates. I ain't think much of it. If I wanted to lick fishy juice off my hands, I could've.

"I just didn't know you were into veteran ponies, is all," she quipped.

Veteran? Who she calling a veteran?

Taking a swig of his drink, Calvin repositioned himself in his seat between the two of us. "Now whatchoo mean my that?"

"Nothing." Sheba gave a bored shrug, her voice as sweet as sugar water. "Just that it seems like you've rode a lot of miles on this one. It may be time for you to put her down."

Various white faces sitting at our dinner table laughed, the dim glow of the candles lit in the dinning area covering up their probably rotten teeth. Her joke about my age wasn't that funny. Sure, I was older than most if not all the women in here, but she wasn't too far behind.

And ain't she know nothing? I'd been here for all but three hours and I knew not to publicly insult Sheba. Pointing out her flaws, while they were few and in-between, made Calvin look bad. Making Calvin look bad was not on my to-do list. Not only that, but it made us look like some fools.

But me not responding made me seem weak.

And I wasn't bowing down to no fellow slave who thought their shit ain't stank.

"Haven't heard any complaints from Calvin yet." Placing my hand on his shoulder, I squeezed it affectionately. He smiled, taking his own hand to pat my own. "And he has rode a lot of miles on me. More than someone like yourself will ever know."

Yeah, that got those white men'a laughin'. I could be a snotty-nosed heifer if I wanted to too! She besta leave me be.

Sheba ain't show a hint of anger at my words. Just carried that same dignified yet bored look on her face that she always had.

"Calvin," spoke Leonide Moguy, a funny-lookin' white man with hair that would soon be turnin' gray. I'd seen him around Candyland quite a bit. Him and Calvin were friends of some sort. Called himself a lawyer. I called him a white nigga because I ain't never seen no white man follow another white man as closely as Leo did Calvin. "How long have you and the lovely Giselle known each other."

Taking a bite of his steak, Calvin said between mouthfuls. "Why, I've known this pretty young thing all twenty-seven years of her life."

Which made up for most of his. Calvin was only thirty-three.

I took of sip of champagne, – it had a strawberry in it – letting the unfamiliar flavor of it washing over my taste buds. It was dry, and sour, but a little sweet all at the same time. I ain't know if I liked it. Maybe if I drank some more, I'd get used to it.

"Really?" Leo said, beginning to clean his specs. At the dinner table of all places! "That's quite the rarity, Giselle. I'll have you know that most slaves get sold two, three, even four times before finding a decent home."

Home? He meant plantation. There was a difference. And wasn't no such thing as a decent plantation. I don't care what anyone told you.

"I couldn't even think about sending my Giselle off to any other owner," Calvin said. "Why, the thought of her being away from me for even a second makes my blood run cold."

Mhm, which was why you always threatened to send me to that goddamn mining company!

It didn't take long after my arrival to notice that Calvin and I were to portray our relationship of that of a mighty-fine looking couple. We acted completely different than how we normally did. From the outside looking in it seemed like we were two-love birds closer together than peas in a pod. We lied pretty much about our entire relationship, besides the fact that I was born and raised in Candyland. Hell, he even made it seem like we bumped uglies on a regular. Yuck.

"Really?" Sheba sighed, a hint of a smile twitching at her painted lips. "You think about her when you layin' in bed with me?"

That made Calvin clear his throat. He was acting like he ain't know how to handle the both of us. Wasn't that something, a master not knowing how to keep his own slaves in line.

He only had himself to blame. Taking me here, having me think that only I'd be his pretty arm candy.

"Now I didn't say that," he said. All I did was down the rest of my drink. Now that I thought of it, those things did taste kinda good. "You know I gotsa thing for you, Sheba."

Yeah, and keep playing around you gonna get something you can't take back. I wouldn't put it past the jezebel to have one of those nasty women's diseases.

"I know." Sheba continued to eat her meal. "Just making sure you ain't goin' nowhere. Especially with someone like her."

I don't know why and I don't know how, but that was the comment that did it. I wasn't going to keep letting her badmouth me and make me the laughing stock of every white man here! This was my first time out in the real world and already I was fixin' myself a fight.

Fed up with all her shit, I threw the napkin that sat in my lap onto the table.

"Ah lawd, she done threw her napkin down. Y'all get scared now," she mocked, not budging an ounce. She then proceeded to take my tossed napkin and use it to dab the corners of her mouth.

"You think you better than me?" I asked, feeling my eyebrow raise practically to the night sky.

I felt Calvin's hand grip my thigh under the table. It wasn't hard or anything, but just a sign as to tell me to shut my black ass up.

Sheba didn't get the message. "I sure do. I don't see what Calvin would see in an old, ugly, nappy-headed jiggaboo like you."

Hot, boiling rage ran through my veins as hate and anger filled my lungs with every breath I took. This bitch had some goddamn nerve talking to me like that. She must've not seen the color of her skin. She was black. May not have been blacker than me, but the bitch was black. Coming at me like she was white, she ain't know me from Adam. I'd fuck her up.

"Whatchoo just call me?" Maybe I ain't here her correctly.

"Y'all two calm down now." Calvin tried to intervene the conversation but it was in vain. Calming down a bull would've been easier.

Sheba grinned like she knew she'd won. "What, you mean? Ugly?"

"Naw, not that one."

"Jiggaboo?"

"The one before that." I felt my fists ball.

"Ooooh, you mean nappy-headed. Oh child hush, you know your hair is nappy."

That was the one that did it. I'd been called every name in the book in my life, and I'd learn to grow a thick skin against those words, but it was something about being called nappy that sent me into a blind fury.

This time was no different.

It all happened so quickly too.

First came me throwing my plate of food into Sheba's face. Then came Sheba screaming like somebody dun died as the food caked itself in her hair. Next came the silence that swept over us all. Everybody in the dining area stopped their conversation just to see what was going on over at Calvin's table. Even the harpist stopped playing.

Finally came what would've been my open hand smacking Sheba across her face had Calvin not already stopped me.

His hands cinched around my waist tighter than a corset would've as he escorted me out of the dining area like I was a child in trouble. I guess Calvin took the place of Sheba as the two of us began arguing all while we traveled away from where wandering eyes could see. We bickered at each other while he dragged up me up endless stairs and we argued while he took me into a spacious room with lots of chairs and couches and the room even had a bar in it.

Hmmm. I wonder if they had more champagne back there.

"Gissy, just what the hell do you call yourself doing down there?" Calvin chided, shoving me like I sickened him. "I take you away from Candyland and show you the big city and this is how you repay me?"

"If you wanna hoot and holler at someone, do it at that big lipped, wide nosed, Sheba. She the bitch you lookin' for." Sighing, I draped myself over the bar, knocking some of its contents onto the ground as my body bombarded the area. "And you better check her, cause if she comes at me like that one mo'gain, I'mma pull out all that pretty hair of hers until she's bald. You hear me! BALD!"

I expected Calvin to continue bellowing at me about how incredibly dumb I'd been acting or how I was embarrassing him, but all I heard coming from behind me was laughter. Light, frivolous, laughter.

Now what was so funny?

"You're jealous."

Snarling, I looked over my shoulder to see Calvin still silently laughing. "Ain't no body jealous."

What for? She could have Calvin. I ain't want nothing she had. I just wanted to have a good time out and she spoiled it for me.

"Oh ,we'll just keep your jealousy a secret. My lips are sealed." He pretended to zip his lips, twisting his hand as if to lock it, and then placed the key in his breast pocket. He even patted it for safe measure.

"I said, ain't nobody jealous."

"You don't have to worry about, Sheba. She's no threat to you." He winked.

Why did that make me giggle? Something about that was just outrageously charming and funny.

"You are also three sheets to the wind."

"Huh?"

"Drunk. You're drunk, Gissy."

Oh. Well. So that's what this great feeling was. Like I wanted to bunch up the sides of my ruby red dress and dance until my feet were sore. With or without Calvin joining me.

"We should take you to the inn across the street," he whispered, pulling my slouched form into his arms. His blue eyes, which were peculiarly warm today, scanned me over before finding their way back to my own. You know, Calvin wasn't so bad looking. Maybe even handsome. "Wouldn't want any varmint taking advantage of you."

I laughed so hard at his words you would've thought my gut was finna bust. Calvin was just so goddamn funny today. "I don't know what varmint even means."

"Le'ts get you some shut eye."

Wasn't nobody tired! If anything, I wanted another glass of champagne while I shimmied beneath the stars.

And if it wasn't for that damn Leonide fella coming in and disrupting the place, I would've asked Calvin to be my dance partner!

"Monsieur," Leo said, peaking his head from behind the door.

Calvin was obviously annoyed by the intrusion. His lips curled and his eyes slanted while he addressed the white nigga. "Now what is it, Leo, can't you see I'm busy?"

Yeah! We were finna have ourselves a good time.

"My apologies, but Mr. Lance Wilcox has arrived."

The mention of Lance or whatever his name was made Calvin quickly release me from his grasp. And I was comfortable there too! "Mr. Wilcox?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Splendid." Calvin clapped, scaring the shit out of me. Well, not fo'real. That was just a figure of speech. "Send him right on in. And make sure you get Big Fred all nice and greased up real good."

My stomach dropped so hard I swore it broke once Calvin said Fred's name. You would've thought all the air was out of the room from how hard I was gasping for breath. The sweat building from my clammy hands ran down my palms like a river.

Why didn't Calvin mention anything like this to me?

Because he knew I would've put up a fight and wouldn't have ever wanted to come.

He was gonna make me watch a Mandingo fight.

**In the script, Calvin was like in his fifties or something. I'm not sure if Calvin in the movie is supposed to be older or younger than his sister... so in this fic he's in his early thirties. Besides, wasn't the average life expectancy of the 1860s like forty?**

**And I hope I wrote Giselle being drunk clearly enough. Don't want any misconceptions of why she's acting so puffy-chested and whimsical. She drank waaay too much. **

**Oh yeah... btw, I hope y'all don't mind this being a Calvin/OC/Dr. Schultz love triangle. I was setting that up since the beginning. **

**Just doesn't happen until later on in the story. I'm not sure yet, but Schultz may not be here for a while. Still working Django in and unless I'm absolutely sure that he can't be added, Schultz won't be appearing.**

**Love the scenes of him and Gissy I've already written though. He's such a gentleman.**

**Question: If you don't mind me asking, what celeb does Giselle look like to you. **

**Just curious to see if your vision matches up with mine. **

**Thank you for reading. **


	5. Blood Booze Upchuck

**No amount of apologies for my lack of updates can make up for the time loss. School (took Summer classes) and work have consumed me to the very brim and having a life let alone finding the time to write has become more of a luxury than it should be. **

**But I haven't abandoned this story. I truly want to write Giselle's tale. **

**Chapter 5 – Blood. Booze. Upchuck. **

Not even moderately expensive champagne could've prepared Giselle for this.

She clenched her eyes close, praying this was all a bad dream, but the burning vision of the two slaves fighting to the death infiltrated even through the black. Her hands were clasped firmly over her ears like a child beneath their covers, petrified of what lurked beyond the safety of their bed, but even that couldn't manage to keep out the horrible screams of the battling men. The galloping pace of her heart slowly ascended into her throat, causing an insurmountable lump to form. She couldn't breathe.

"Goddammit, Fred!" Calvin hollered so viciously that even Giselle whimpered in fright. She was akin to seeing him mad, she'd seen him at his very worst, but _this _was too much. Watchin' men duel to the death for pleasure was evil. "Fight, nigga, fight!"

Perhaps the bar was a better place for her. Even if that did mean dealing with Sheba...

Calvin's hand shot out to her thigh, squeezing it tightly like a copperhead around a mouse. Giselle's eyes fluttered open, meeting Calvin's that were the hue of a violent storm. She didn't dare scoot another inch. There wasn't any need for two fights tonight.

"You to stay put. Don't you move." he cooed in a much different tone than when he was addressing his mandingos. "I want you to enjoy this with me, it's all good'n'fun."

Her mouth fell open and she tried to say the words that ran amuck through her head, but like a good ol' slave, she said the only words that came second nature to her.

"Yes, monsieur," she stammered. "I mean, Calvin. I'll stay."

The sight she saw was going to haunt her for the rest of her days. Not even her most wicked of nightmares could've compared. Blood smeared oak wood in both droplets and puddles of dark red along with coating the slave's bodies like an extra layer of skin. The smell of wood burning in the fireplace extinguished the stench of sweat and copper. Giselle could've almost passed the crunching of bone for the crackling of embers.

This was too much. She couldn't take it. Giselle couldn't take knowing that this was how her father died. For years she lived in ignorance of how horrid mandingo fights were. All she knew was that her daddy was one of Calvin Sr.'s fighters and that one night he lost and never came back.

But she remembered a lot of what the fights did to him.

The roughness of his hands when she held them at night.

Just how many different colors the and scars made on his skin. Some never went away.

How she could sometimes hear him cry when he thought no one was around.

"Do what we talked about, Fred!" Calvin's passion and tunnel vision kept him from noticing how distraught the woman beside him was. She was grateful. He slapped his hand on his knee, swearing beneath his breath. "Now what the hell does he think this is? Is the nigga dancin' or fightin', cause I just don't know anymore."

"Now, now, Candie," spoke Lance Wilcox, taking a sip of his brandy before running a hand through his brown hair streaked with grey. "Big Fred has served you well, it's his time."

"Don't count ya chickens before they've hatched." Calvin wagged a finger at Big Fred as he dislocated his opponent's shoulder. "My nigga still got some fight in him."

"Be that as it may," Lance said. "He's much too old and weathered to stand a chance against Junebug."

"Calvin," Giselle peeped, tugging at his sleeve. He casted her an annoyed glare before giving her the attention she asked for.

"What is it that you want, sweetie pie?"

"Can I be excused?"

He sighed. "_May_. May I be excused," he corrected her for the umpteenth time. "And for your incorrect usage of the English language, no you may not. I thought this was already settled that I wanted you here with me."

Yeah, but she was gon' pass out if she didn't leave and that would've done nothin' but embarrassed everyone.

"Let the Mare go." Sheba drawled the insult, being as sexy as what everyone made her out to be. She quirked a finely sculpted eyebrow before side-eyeing the hell out of Giselle. "Not her fault she's squeamish. It was inbred in her."

Liquid courage was gonna make Giselle knock some sense into that damn woman before the night was through. But she desperately needed to get out of the parlor for everyone's sake.

She pleaded with Calvin – more than she ever had before. "Calvin, please-"

It was too little too late.

The blood.

All that alcohol she drank...

Those screams.

That alcohol...

The nauseous feeling bubbling inside of her.

The sight of Big Fred blinded, sputtering out blood like a leaky sink, dead.

That alcohol...

Giselle couldn't hold her liquor, or her dinner, or any of the contents of her stomach. Doubled over, she emptied what felt like everything inside of her body onto everything in sight. Vomit splattered onto the floor, intermingling with the crimson pools. Some chunks flew into Sheba's hair and she squealed like a pig sent to be slaughtered. But most of it, to Giselle's dismay, filled the lap of Calvin Candie who was already up in arms over the loss of one costly Mandingo fight.

She was in trouble.

**I know, I know, not much of a comeback chapter. And it was incredibly short. You have my apologies. **

**And yes, there will be romance between Calvin and Giselle soon enough. I want it to feel plausible though.**

**Annnnd, I figured out a way to incorporate both Django and Shultz. **

**I'm ready for this to be a love triangle dammit. **

**Thank you for reading. **


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